Scenes of home as July ascends:
Overhead grasses reach, bend, and droop.
Fading daisies wilt and brown.
Powdery-green scum skims and clouds the pond.
Bullfrog voices are pitched ever lower, and bird song calms.
The assiduous care of baby everythings loses urgency. Offspring fate is largely sealed; either they have fallen prey to something, or they’ve grown to strength and near-independence.
Jonathan made me a walking stick with a narrow, inset, oval-shaped flaw at the top that looks like the eye of Sauron. He polished it to a smooth finish. I walk the paths like a sorceress, restraining the power that hums through her mighty staff.
The dogs were unimpressed.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 311: 110 words, TOTAL = 50,860; 9,140 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.